Protege Moi
by RobinRocks
Summary: Watson is getting married. Holmes is depressed and jealous. And taking cocaine. Watson's not pleased. Holmes doesn't care. Inspired by Placebo's Protege Moi. NOT slash and NOT a songfic.


For now I will say nothing; except that, while this is not a song-fic (I have had quite enough of _those_), it _is_ inspired by Placebo's _Protégé Moi_.

Or, at least, by the sad, resonating of "Protect me, protect me…" in the song.

Probably the only _Sherlock Holmes_ fic I will ever write.

And it's definitely **NOT** slash.

Disclaimer: _A Study in Scarlet_ was first published in 1887. Since I was not born in even **19**87 (the following year, as a matter of fact) I honestly could not even _begin_ to argue that _Sherlock Holmes_ is mine. Therefore, I admit that he is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's…

Protégé Moi

"You know I dislike you doing that."

Sherlock Holmes did not move; nor did he even seem to acknowledge the fact that his friend had spoken. In preference to that, he continued to gaze pensively out of the window at the night-enshrouded street below. The London fog choked the city once more, permeating every crack of every road, strangling the very air from which it had been birthed—

"I _said_, I do not like you doing that." Doctor Watson's tone was more impatient this time around.

Again the doctor was fractiously ignored. The tall slim form of his friend still stood at the window, one long hand pressed to a pane of the cold glass.

In the other, gripped tightly, was that blasted hypodermic needle.

"Holmes!" Watson snapped, losing his temper.

The detective did not start; he did, however, acknowledge Watson's attempts to obtain his attention. He turned his head with a sudden jerking movement, averting his gaze from the murky street to the visage of his friend. The stone grey eyes settled on Watson; and the doctor saw that familiar emptiness in them.

How Watson detested what his friend had christened the "Black Fit". Those seemingly-endless time periods during which the man would simply be overcome by lethargy following any and every great burst of inquisitional energy which was required to deconstruct a case. When he would simply lie around on the sofa, making his violin wail with the unexplainable sadness that seemed to radiate from him; or read his dusty volumes, gazing at pages for what seemed like at least an hour each before he would turn the page; or even just sleep the day away.

Was "eccentric" _even_ the term for Holmes at times like these? Watson often wondered this at times when Sherlock Holmes seemed to be unreachably depressed. Depression seemed to be the only emotion he was capable of feeling; that, and the jealousy Watson had seen in him before.

But _this_… _this_ seemed different. _Somehow_, it was different. Watson was a doctor, not a psychologist; and yet somehow, he could tell one type of depression from another. Holmes had been like this for days, and yet it was not – as was the usual ritual – subsequent of any case or crime Watson would have considered notable.

No, it was not the black fit itself which Watson deemed as unusual.

It was the _timing_.

"I heard you, Watson." Sherlock Holmes' voice was as empty as his gaze.

Watson snorted and irritably put out his cigar in the glass tray on the arm of his chair.

"Then why did you refrain from answering me, man?"

Again he received no answer for his pains. Holmes absently twisted the needle between his long fingers and dropped his gaze, frowning at the windowsill.

"_Holmes!_"

The detective lifted his head again, his expression a bored one. Bored; and lazy, and—

"Dear _god_, man!" Watson shut his eyes for a second, fighting down his anger and despair. "That _wretched_ narcotic! Give me the needle!"

His friend smiled languidly.

"It is of no harm, my dear Watson…"

"Yes indeed it is, dear fellow!" Watson snapped, rising from his chair. "The needle, if you please." He held out his hand to receive it.

Holmes gazed fondly at it.

"What do you know of it, Watson? You have never tried it…"

"Because I am a medical man, Holmes, and know of its physical and mental consequences. That brilliant mind of yours, man—you are surely going to destroy it…"

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes for a few moments.

"No, Watson…" He opened those cold steel eyes again, fixing them on his companion. "It is _because_ of the cocaine that my mind is not _already_ destroyed…"

"Holmes, if I had a shilling for every time you have tried to—"

"—Justify what can only be described in medical terms as an addiction, you would be a rich man indeed," Holmes finished in an extremely bored tone. "Yes, yes, doctor…"

Watson extended his hand further.

"Holmes. The needle. Please."

For the first time the detective's expression became stricken.

"Watson, you do not understand… it is the only thing which makes this black fit _bearable_… I would surely go mad—"

"Dear fellow, I have reason to believe that your wretched narcotic is the _cause_ – at least in part – of your "black fit"," Watson interrupted coldly. "I will not stand by and watch my friend poison himself when I am not ignorant, as so many are, of its consequences…"

Sherlock Holmes abruptly turned from him again, looking out of the window at the empty smog-choked street.

"No, my dear Watson… you will _not stand by and watch_, will you?" He spat, his voice sour. "You will be away; you will have deserted me…"

Watson felt his anger rise again.

"Holmes, we have discussed this. Yes, in a few weeks time, I will be leaving Baker Street to take up residence with my by-then wife. There is no way I can be married and yet still be here, unless you would not object to having—"

"You are very much aware that I would object to such a notion, doctor."

"Well then…" Watson paused. "Then there is nothing else but for you to give me that needle. You have had more than enough these past few days. You are going to kill yourself from an overdose…"

Still with his back to him, Sherlock Holmes fished in the pocket of his dressing gown – thrown on over his day dress, cravat and all – and withdrew a cigarette and a match. He struck the latter on the wall and lit the former, taking it in one hand.

A source of unhealthy addiction in either long slim hand.

"My mind is _fine_, Watson," he assured his friend finally, looking briefly over his shoulder at him. "The cocaine does no damage that the black fit does not…"

His cold eyes narrowed.

"I see, for example, that you travelled to the west side of the city this morning by dogcart; presumably to send a telegram."

Watson blinked, taken by surprise – as usual.

"Well then, if your mind is in such excellent shape, perhaps you would care to deconstruct such knowledge and share it with me." He folded his arms. "I certainly know I had made no such indication to you as to what my intentions were when I left; in fact, I have not seen you for most of the day, so how do you even know when I went out, if at all?"

Holmes drew on his cigarette.

"Elementary," he replied blandly. "Although surely, Doctor, you know my methods by now?"

"And you know that I have never once failed to be fascinated by them," Watson replied, attempting to warm his friend with the compliment. Ironically, the compliment cut no ice whatsoever, and Holmes turned to the window again; a silver ribbon of smoke twirled from the end of his cigarette, adding to the smoky, heavy air of the already-stifled room.

"You do far from flatter me, Watson. But if you must know… You spoke last night of wanting to send a message to Miss Morstan – your wife-to-be in a few weeks time, let us say. Your side of the desk is absolutely untouched; rather, it is exactly as you left it last night, so of course I knew that you could not have written a letter. The only other logical explanation would be that you sent her a telegram. I know you went out this morning by the mud that is on the hems of your trousers; it is dry, for one thing, so must have been there more than a few hours, indicting a morning venture. And of course the dogcart is known to send up more mud than say, the hansom cab."

"The west of London, then?"

Holmes heaved a sigh, waving vaguely in the general direction of Watson's mud-spattered trousers with his cigarette hand.

"The type of mud; you know I have written a monogram… _Confound_ it, Watson! You _know_ these things!" His voice rose to a near-hysterical tone as his friend's query angered him. "Why do you _ask_ when you _know_, man?"

"I apologise, dear fellow," Watson replied soothingly. "But please, the drug… Look what it is doing to you…"

"Oh, what _will_ I do when you have left me?" Holmes stormed, clutching the needle all the more tightly. "Really, who _will_ play nursemaid to me then?"

"Holmes, you are being unreasonable—"

Sherlock Holmes shook his head as though clearing it.

"Am I, Watson?" He whispered, his voice haunted. "Am I? Am I the one deserting-?"

"_Holmes!_" Watson very nearly lost his temper again. "Stop this behaviour this instant! Why, you are acting as jealously as a _child_!"

Of course Watson knew of his friend's distrust and dislike of women, and knew him to be almost… _emotionless_. Sherlock Holmes was not a lover, that was for certain. But still, Watson would not stand for this behaviour from him.

"You know very well it must be this way," Watson said more patiently. "I love that woman, Holmes. I desire to be with her. Surely, as my friend, you cannot deny me that?"

"Just as you would deny a man his _only_ friend?"

Watson burned.

"Holmes, that is _not_ true!" He snapped angrily. "I am _not_ your _only_ friend! Why, you have plenty of—"

"Ha! Who? Lestrade? Perhaps Gregson?" Holmes laughed sardonically. "They are no friends of mine, Watson; only acquaintances with the desire to pick my brains and take credit due to me."

"You have always said you do want to be "involved"," Watson pointed out. "You say it amuses you to let them take the glory for your work."

"It begins to tire me."

"Then _tell_ them so, man!"

"Ah, but Watson… it has never _mattered_ to me before. Not when I know you will poetically glorify my work in your "casefiles" anyway…"

"But Holmes," Watson replied, incredulous, "of course I will still do that for you. Any cases in which you may desire company, I will be at your side as always…"

Holmes smiled sourly.

"I thank you, Watson," his voice laced with a sarcasm that Watson had come to know.

"Holmes, please do not think this to be the end of our friendship," he pleaded. "I will still come to Baker Street to visit you, and of course you will be welcome at any time to call upon _us_."

"Perhaps I will."

_But more than likely **not**… _

He did not voice the last part.

"Holmes—"

"Do not pity me, Watson!" Holmes snapped. "It matters little to me either way. Go to your woman, or stay here. It makes not the slightest bit of difference to me." He squeezed the needle in his hand. "As I recall saying to you before, no matter your desire, for me there will always be the cocaine bottle…"

Watson cleared his throat.

"Yes, about that…" He held out his hand one final time. "For the last time, dear fellow; hand it over before you do yourself worse ill…"

Holmes shook for a second, his back to his friend; then he whipped around and slapped the needle into the doctor's hand.

"Here, take it!" He shrieked. "_Take it!_"

Watson caught his wrist as he tried to recoil his hand. Wrenching up the taller man's sleeve before he could protest, he gazed in silent horror at the mottled and bruised forearm of his friend. Tiny prickmarks from that cursed needle spread like a network all up the pale skin in a systematic fashion.

"_How can you do this to yourself?_…" Watson whispered.

Silence.

Then—

"That's it, Watson!" Sherlock Holmes erupted, snatching his arm back. "_Protect_ me, damn you! _Protégé **moi**!_"

He spat the last word – _French_ – in a sarcastic tone that even _Watson_ had not deemed him capable of and turned on his heel, throwing his cigarette into the fire as he passed. He stormed out, slamming the door to his room behind him with such force that the whole room seemed to shake.

Watson looked at the needle in his hand and felt more hatred for it than ever before.

For the rest of the night – all the way through to daybreak – the melancholic, haunted wailings of a violin echoed all throughout 221B Baker Street.

And Doctor Watson couldn't help but wonder if the almighty emotionless Sherlock Holmes was really so emotionless after all.

* * *

The above; **NOT** slash, I assure you. My opinion on HolmesxWatson slash – it's plain weird and I dislike it. I mean, it is not completely implausible, yeah; I guess I can see where some people get it from. Some of the things they say, Holmes' dislike of women, etc. But I am quite sure that such a notion never once crossed Conan Doyle's mind when writing any of the _Sherlock Holmes_ stories; it was far more frowned upon in the Victorian age than it is now. Homosexuality has not been fully understood for even, I would say, fifty years, much less one hundred. Doyle himself I am sure was disgusted by the idea of it, and even if he had not been, had he even written _any_ indication of something more intimate between Holmes and Watson, no matter how slight, there is no doubt he would have gotten into a _lot_ of trouble for it. Even in our modern day; look at how much controversy _Brokeback Mountain_ sparked, simply because the love affair was not a heterosexual one.

Anyone who has read my _Teen Titans_ stuff will _know_ I am not adverse to slash. But I don't what it is about HolmesxWatson slash – it just weirds me out.

That said, the above is not _love_ Holmes feels, but _jealousy_. And I can back that up; in _The Adventure of Blanched Soldier_ from _The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_, one of the only two stories to be written from Holmes' point-of-view, one of the first things he says is:

"…The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone."

Nope, he couldn't just say; "He got married"…

Also, the third-person narrative; I hate writing in first-person. I am not very good at it, to begin with, and I also just don't like doing it. Therefore writing a _Sherlock Holmes_ fic seemed out of the question, as I wouldn't have wanted to mess with the narrative pattern of the conventional stories.

Then, also in _The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_, I discovered _The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone_; the only third-person story written by Conan Doyle himself. It's good… :)… And yeah, suddenly it seemed okay to write it in third-person…

So here we are.

I hope you enjoyed it and that I didn't mutilate the fandom too badly…

-RobinRocks xXx


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